Back to the Beginning - Last Chapter

Kenny is getting married - to his lovely Savanna.

"In City Park, Ma! Your old neighborhood!" he tells me over the phone. I am delighted.

Kenny has been a Coloradan ever since he headed off to Denver University to play basketball. Tommy has joined him to live and work in the Mile High City. On June 17th Tommy will pull honorable duty as his older brother's best man. So now my siblings and I will have the rare opportunity to be together in the neighborhood where we grew up.

"Wouldn't Dad love this?" my sister Mary sighs.

1970 - on Eudora Street in Denver. From top left clockwise:
Dad, Mary, Mom holding Tommy, Joe, Deb, Rick, Carry,
Cathy, Terri, Mick. Not pictured: Jeff, who would be born the
following year.

Dad's been gone 16 years. In the beginning we think we will never get over the loss of his huge presence in our lives. The first July 4th after his death, we try to carry on with the Dick Brown Olympics. Tom hosts the day in his spacious backyard, and he and Mary organize the events. But without Dad's big laughter, everything falls flat.When it's time for the toddlers' race or somebody gets dizzy and trips in Spin the Bat, we look over to laugh with Dad.

It's hard to remember he's not there. More than once, somebody slips away to shed a few emotional tears. It's the last Dick Brown Olympics.

One evening, Kris and my sisters and I are nursing margaritas at our favorite restaurant. Kris reminisces not only about Dad but also about her first husband Tom who never lived to see his only son. We lapse into a despondent silence.

"I think the name of my third husband will be Harry," our stepmother suddenly breaks the silence.

We look up surprised.

"Because then," Kris says, her mouth twitching, "I can say I'll marry any Tom, Dick or Harry."

She can't say it with a straight face. After a stunned moment we laugh - we laugh so hard we cry.

And then it gets better. Day by week by month by year, we learn to live without Dad. Grandchildren grow up. Dad's stepson Nolan marries beautiful Brianne. More than ten years after Dad's death, Kris meets a nice man called Larry - not Harry, but close enough. The years produce four more grandchildren, 11 great grandchildren with two more on the way, and a host of weddings Dad will never see.

Today is Kenny and Savanna's.

This eventful Friday, however, is important for other reasons. My siblings and I hatch a plan to meet at the old house on Eudora Street - where we all grew up. It's the first and only time we've ever been together to revisit our roots, and we're determined to commemorate the day with a picture on the old front steps. Only Mick and Carry are absent. The rest of us, though, bring along our spouses and even some of our kids.

On Friday morning we park our caravan of cars on Eudora Street and emerge from our vehicles staring in wonder. Nothing has changed. Not really. Except the size of our old house.

"How did 12 of us fit?" Joe can hardly believe the modest size of our home 45 years later.

"Look! That's where the bees were!" Rick points to the windows under the eaves on the south side of the house. He describes to his wife and daughters the gallons of honey that dripped over the bricks of our home until Dad marched into battle with the bees.

Blessed Sacrament Church and our old schools sit sedately at the end of the block on Montview Boulevard, and we recognize the familiar homes of old neighbors.

"Remember Spy Lady?" Joe gestures across the street. We have forgotten the actual name of the old woman whose face habitually appeared behind the curtains to watch us at play.

My sister-in-law Sheryl, feistier than all of us put together, asks the question.  "Don't you want to go inside?" We look at each other bashfully. It's bad enough that more than 40 of us huddle together on the sidewalk. Surely the neighbors will become suspicious. How can we ring the doorbell and demand entrance?

Fate, however, is on our side. A young man appears at our old front door and looks quizzically at the mob in front of his house.

"May I help you?" he asks uncertainly.

Brave Sheryl is our spokeswoman. "Have you ever heard of the Browns?" she makes a sweeping gesture toward us. "They used to live here!"

The young man's eyes open wide in dawning recognition. "Oh yeah! You're the family with the ten kids?" He laughs. "Boy, did we hear stories about you."

Without even having to convince him we're not thieves, drug lords or serial killers, he opens the door wide and invites us in. The house, he explains, belongs to his parents, but they won't mind in the least if we look around. We stare at each other hardly believing our good fortune.

Aside from the old fashioned ornamental windows and the original bannister, we don't recognize much. We've stepped into a home right out of HGTV - completely renovated from top to bottom. The kitchen boasts an island, and gone is the huge table with wood benches we gathered around for every meal. Our century old house has undergone a total transformation, but we still feel the familiarity of walls and space and atmosphere.

Hungrily, we take it all in - the bench at the bottom of the staircase is still there, painted and pillowed. Upstairs, the laundry chute that provided us endless entertainment still resides in the corner of the bathroom.

"Our dad installed that double vanity," Deb informs the young man, whose name turns out to be Tony. The deep closets that Mick and Rick were certain hid murderous monsters are clean and elegant and do not spill forth tee shirts, dirty mismatched tennis shoes or jars with live crawdads.

We exclaim in delight over every inch of the house before at last we thank Tony and reluctantly traipse out the door. The front porch, thankfully, is exactly the same as it was 45 years ago.

At the old house on Eudora Street, 45 years later. (Top row -

digitally added by our brilliant nephew Brandon

Warner - Dad and Mom!) Middle row from left: Terri,

Mary, Tom, Joe. Bottom row from left: Jeff, Cathy,

Rick and Deb. Not pictured: Mick and Carry.

"Let's take pictures!" Sheryl instructs.

Automatically, we find our old spots on the porch steps that seem considerably smaller four and half decades later. We crowd close together and look up. The perspective from the porch is shockingly familiar - like a recurring dream in vivid color. Just like that, 45 years falls away. We're still the Brown kids waiting for a summer day in June to unfold.

Across the street, Spy Lady could be peering around her draperies to wonder what the fuss is all about. Any second now the eight Reddicks, our next door neighbors, will tumble out their door to beg us for a game of kickball at the Masonic Temple. Mrs. Siravotka will barrel out of her house to scream down the block.

"Annie! Vincent! I told you to come in ten minutes ago!"

Even now, our tall father will rise from the top step in his immaculately pressed suit to kiss Mom and warn us to behave ourselves. We can see him ambling out to the old brown station wagon and flashing his big, toothy grin as he heads off to work. Mom will kiss our baby brother Tommy, turning him gently on her shoulder in the exact way I've watched my little sister Terri turn her babies a million times.

Except that Mom and Dad are gone. And we are not young. We are grandparents and cancer survivors. We've endured heart attacks and bad knees and aching backs.

All at once, I miss Mick who's traveling cross country to follow his athletic daughters and Carry who's home battling breast cancer. They should be here on this porch step. Mom and Dad should be here.

My siblings are experiencing the same nostalgic ache. Instinctively we reach for each other. I sling my arms around Jeff and Rick. Terri grabs Mary, and Mary grabs Tom, Tom grabs Joe, and Joe grabs Deb - until we are a tightly linked circle of family. Close together on the porch steps, we look out into the faces of our future. Not for the first time do I marvel at the beauty of my sisters-in-law or the steadfastness of our good husbands. Our children and nieces and nephews grin, and I see the dearness of Mom and Dad in all of them.

The cameras flash as spouses and kids snap pictures on phones. My husband John, the only one of us who refuses to be leashed to a cell phone, looks on with tolerant amusement. He catches my eye and winks in understanding. John always knows what I'm thinking.

The ache for the past diminishes against the backdrop of the much loved faces before us. I squint into the brilliant sunshine of a perfect day. This wonderful old house on Eudora Street doesn't belong to us any more. But aren't the ten of us still here? Mom and Dad have given us beautiful memories, and they've given us each other.

I smile at my husband. My brothers and sisters and I won't come back to Eudora Street. Not like this, anyway.  But Mom and Dad, along with all our memories, are with us wherever we go. It's time to leave this old place. After all, we have a wedding to attend.

Today our son is getting married.

May 25th, 2000

I'm the first one at the hospital.

Just before the morning bell rings to start school, my good friend and school secretary Dana Newman races up the stairs to my classroom at Central Catholic.

"Your stepmom just called!" she gasps. "It's your dad! He's on his way to the hospital!"

Dad, 1998. (Photo courtesy of 
Grand Island Independent)

My hands, gripping the steering wheel, tremble all the way to St. Francis. The hospital's only a few blocks from school, but I can't get there fast enough. I don't expect to beat the ambulance, but the emergency room desk clerk tells me Dad hasn't arrived yet.

"We don't have any other information," she repeats patiently as I pepper her with frantic questions.

Pacing back and forth waiting for the ambulance, I tell myself it will be all right. Dad's only having heart fibrillations like he did before, that's all.

John and I, in fact, have just spent an evening with Dad and Kris at their house. Sitting in his favorite chair, Dad accepts the dozen or so paper bags my stepmother hands him. As she busily puts groceries away, Dad begins to fold bags.

"And would this be your very special job?" I tease.

"As a matter of fact," he says with dignity, "this is my job."

I watch as he places a carefully folded bag beside his chair. "My goodness," I marvel. "How would Kris ever manage without you?"

He glances up wryly and chuckles. "Listen, Smart Alec, I try to do my part around here."

With the advent of the year 2000 and a new millennium, Dad hands the reigns of the travel agency over to my brother Mick and, for the first time in his life, works half days. Aside from enduring a pacemaker for arrhythmia and badly arthritic knees, Dad enjoys good health. Kris makes him deeply happy, and he finally has time to to enjoy our stepbrother Nolan's high school events. In the evenings, he relaxes in front of the t.v. with Kris and Nolan. Duchess, his little dachshund, slides next to Dad's thigh in the big worn recliner. Long before the ten o'clock news, man and dog are snoring in tandem.

I refuse to believe, on this beautiful morning in late May with sunshine pouring through the windows of the hospital, that my 70-year-old father will leave this earth.

"Please God," I silently beseech, "we need him so much!"

All at once I see Lori, my brother Mick's wife, scurrying across the pavement toward the emergency room entrance, and I am filled with relief at the sight of her loved and familiar face. Almost immediately, the sirens of the approaching ambulance shatter the early morning quiet. My heart leaps against my chest. The ambulance comes to an abrupt stop not far from Lori and me. Instantly, two paramedics tumble out, open the rear doors, and muscle out a gurney. Our huge father is strapped to it, his long legs extending over the end. My hand flies to my mouth. In that instant, I know Dad is either unconscious or dead.

Immediately behind the ambulance comes a caravan of vehicles. Kris and most of my siblings fall out of their cars, and Lori and I run to meet them. Kris sobs and rushes into my arms. My brothers and sisters and I huddle around her.

"What happened?" I finally ask.

Kris struggles to regain her composure. "He collapsed on his treadmill," she chokes. "They're giving him C.P.R."

My sister Mary groans and begins to weep. The words don't penetrate my senses. Kris explains that Nolan, in his bedroom getting ready for school, hears Dad fall from his treadmill. Aside from a great gasp, Dad is motionless. Nolan immediately calls an ambulance and then notifies Kris who rushes back from work.

Without quite realizing how, we've navigated ourselves inside. Still huddled together, we're met by an Emergency Room employee who escorts us to a small room. We don't talk. Fearfully, we stare through the window of the door waiting for someone to tell us what's happened to Dad. My brother Rick reaches over to grip Kris's shoulder, and his steadiness and goodness remind me of Dad. Deb folds her arms tightly across herself, and Mary's brown eyes are strained and anxious. Mick, tall and stalwart, stands silent and still with his arm around Lori.

It's Dr. Wagoner, Dad's own physician,who walks gravely to our room and quietly admits himself. None of us breathes.

"I'm so sorry," he says softly to Kris.

Our cries fill the small room. I am suddenly recalling Mom's last shuddering breath before she passes 21 years ago. Then, as now, we weep and instinctively reach for each other. Dr. Wagoner waits respectfully, offers his grave condolences, and departs quietly to leave us alone.

Our brother Tom, who's just arrived, sees us through the window and hurries frantically to us.

"Is Dad okay?" he breathes. None of us can speak. "Tell me!" he begs when no one responds.

At last Kris grabs his hand. "Your dad's gone," she sobs.

Tom curses, lowers his head, and intently seems to study the floor.

A kind hospital volunteer pokes her head into the room. "We've notified a priest here at the hospital," she informs us. A moment later Father Harry Kurtenbach, the wonderful parish pastor with us when Mom died, skids around the corner. He's amazed to see us, and we can hardly believe it's our own Father Harry come to comfort us once again.

"Oh, children," he sighs, as if it's 21 years ago and we're all still kids. He embraces each of us. "It's time to say goodbye to your father," he says.

Our stepmother goes first, alone. When she comes back to us, something inside her seems to have broken. We suddenly remember this is the second husband Kris has lost. She leans over in agony as if searching for breath, and we catch her and hold her. Finally Father Kurtenbach ushers us to the room in which Dad lies. We steady ourselves and enter.

Dad's shirtless and wears only his gym shorts and tube socks. Other than the very stillness of his body, he could be asleep. His mouth gapes open just like it does when he snores in his recliner, and his big prominent nose sticks in the air. It's the same nose I have - the nose I've always hated on my girl face.

"I'm glad I have your nose," I think fiercely now as I stare down at my dead father. His tennis shoes rest side by side below the gurney as if any moment he will sit up, tie them on, and stride out the hospital doors to finish his workout.

Father Kurtenbach gently forms the Sign of the Cross on Dad's forehead and prays briefly. Then he invites each of us to say goodbye. Observing my siblings one by one as they tearfully hug Dad, I stand at the end of the gurney and grab Dad's gnarled hammer toes through his gym socks. Surely, he will wake up, I think confusedly. But when it's my turn to say goodbye, I feel the lifelessness beneath his cool skin.

Dick Brown - a giant of a man.

"Goodbye Dad," I weep, just like my siblings. I hug him with all my might, the way I used to when I was little - before Dad felt awkward about hugging our adolescent bodies. It feels good, too, and I sense that Dad knows- knows that all of us cling to him one last time.

Dad's a giant of a man. We gaze now upon his lifeless form and cannot fathom he's truly gone. He looks, for all of his loving familiarity and dearness, like a fallen warrior. Nothing will ever be the same without his bigger than life presence.

When I was five-years-old, I still remember the way Dad lifted Joe, Mick and me to the low hanging roof over our backyard patio. He was so tall, it was an easy reach.

"Jump!" he grinned with his arms thrust upward.

I recall the sheer joy of leaping into space, completely confident my good father would catch me.

Although growing up with Dad was sometimes complicated, in the end Dad wanted his kids and grandkids only to know they were loved - that we could count on him.

And we always could.

For all the rest of his life, whenever we stumbled, Dad was there to catch us.

Dad's Birthday

Tommy sits cross-legged in front of the television, face propped on fists, mesmerized by the frustrated woman in a weight loss ad.

The woman grabs mounds of belly fat in both hands and frowns balefully at the camera. My five-year-old son studies her dilemma with sympathy.

"You know, Mom," Tommy considers thoughtfully, his eyes locked on the screen, "some people would say you're fat."

It's a long moment before my stony silence penetrates his consciousness. When at last he glances over, I am staring daggers. His eyes grow spectacularly wide as if it only just occurs to him he's said the words aloud.

"But not me!" he stutters in fright. "Some people, but not me!"

The sibs: Top from left - Tom, Cathy, Joe, Jeff. Middle from left; Mary,
Carry, Terri, Deb, Nolan. Bottom from left; Mick, Rick.

Tommy is a sweet, funny, kind little boy, but occasionally he steps in it. Big time. He inherits this sterling quality from his grandfather. Dad is perfectly capable of bringing a pleasant conversation to a grinding halt.

After Terri's old-fashioned boyfriend Paul calls Dad to ask for Terri's hand in marriage, Dad hangs up grinning with satisfaction. "Finally," he says delightedly, "one of my girls marries a good Catholic boy!" - as if the rest of us married into a cult of human sacrificing Satan worshippers.

We bristle, roll our eyes, and from time to time get our feelings hurt. But we always forgive him. How can we not? Somehow Dad's held us together for 20 years since Mom's death and given us a wonderful stepmother and new stepbrother in the bargain. In the end it doesn't matter that he's not perfect. We're still crazy about him, and as we grow older we're mindful of opportunities to tell Dad just how much he means to us.

This year Dad turns 70, and our stepmother Kris works hard to make it a special occasion. Uncle Carl flies all the way from Pittsburgh, and even Dad's cousin MaryLee and her husband Joe arrive from Colorado. We decide to commemorate the day in style. Kris asks all of us to write our own special memories of growing up with Dad.

In Dad and Kris's backyard over Labor Day weekend - because Dad's birthday falls on September 5th - we set up tables and chairs and prepare mountains of food. Uncle Carl makes balloon animals for our kids, exactly as he did for us a generation ago. The Nebraska evening is mild and beautiful, a night made for celebration.

Uncle Carl makes balloon animals for great nieces Katie
Brand and Sarah Lewandowski.

Nostalgic for the old Denver days and the brown station wagon in which Dad forced us to harmonize "I Had a Dream, Dear", I attempt to recreate the moment. Ten of the grandkids are wrangled into portraying each one of us back in the 60's and very early 70's. They carefully arrange themselves in rows of chairs on the deck to resemble all of us packed into the old brown station wagon - even in the crack.  I play the part of Dad.

"Kids!" I boom with enthusiasm. "Let's practice our song!"

This announcement is met by a chorus of groans and even pathetic sobs.

Drawing my eyebrows fiercely together like Dad, I scold. "Nobody makes it to the Ed Sullivan Show without practice! But you'll make it, and you know why?" I roar. "Because you're Browns, that's why!"

I point uncertainly to my own son Tommy folded in a fetal position in the crack. "Except you," I say hesitantly. "Are you one of my kids?"

He shakes his head. "No sir, Mr. Brown. I'm Bobby Smith," he responds politely, pretending to be our next door neighbor from Eudora Street.

I gape in disbelief. "Does your mother know where you are?"

Tommy shrugs. "Don't know. I haven't seen her for three days."

And so it goes.

My brothers and sisters share memories all the way back from Eudora Street in Denver. Mick remembers the time Dad parked some distance away to watch my brothers practice baseball at City Park. A group of militant teenagers with chains circled his car in a flash and began to rock it, pounding on the hood with violent fervor. Dad stepped out of the car, raised himself to his full 6 ft. 7 inches, and steadily addressed the thugs.

"I'll take you one at a time. Who wants to be first?"

That was all. Those boys got out of there fast.

The old favorite stories about the bees taking over our house, the time Dad had too much to drink after the Blessed Sacrament Church Talent Show, and the day we all were kicked out of Stolley Park School Gym because Dad tormented the refs - are shared once again, and nobody laughs harder than Dad.

Our younger brother Tom remembers the mythical father who took him fishing and heaved his tool box around to vigorously tackle household and auto repairs. Neither fishing expeditions nor home repairs ever occurred.

"And how I loved crawling into Dad's bed on Sunday mornings when he'd  pull me close and cuddle," Tom recalls with a straight face. "But then I had to get up to drive back to college." We laugh til we cry.

My younger siblings share stories of growing up with Dad after Mom died - how he explained the facts of life to my little sisters and dealt with their first periods, how he drilled into them bits of advice for succeeding in life. Mary rattles off every one of Dad's familiar mantras.

"Be a good person! Don't cheat, lie, steal, drink, or do drugs! Go to church! Keep your pecker in your pants! Look around, see what needs to be done, and do it! Go for the jugular!"

Nolan, our young stepbrother, remembers one more piece of advice from Dad: "Don't ever start a fight. But if you're forced into one," Dad always warned, "make sure you win."

Our stepmother Kris, who cries easily, is last. She is brief - thanking Dad for loving her and all of us, for teaching us every day of our lives that family is most important, and for personally making her very happy. She breaks off at the end, reduced to tears, and she and Dad grab hands.

We are not an emotional family. Crying and tearful displays are reserved for funerals only. Period. At every other family gathering we laugh, jab, tease and work hard to outdo each other with every successive smart alec remark. But after reliving an evening of memories - the funniest and the most painful - and observing Kris's simple but profound overture of love, we become uncharacteristically silent and furiously blink back tears.

"I've been a very lucky man," Dad says at last. "I've been blessed with two wonderful women in my life and 11 kids I'm very proud of. Thank you all for this very nice day."

Even Dad is choked up.

Dad's 70th birtday party - with all his grandkids.

It's a few moments before we collect ourselves. Silence endures, and above us the mourning doves coo plaintively in the tender sweetness of a late summer evening. But at last Kris leaps up with determined zest to bring the party back to life again.

"Time for birthday cake!" she crows.

We rouse ourselves, blow our noses and get ready to usher Dad into the next decade of life. His 30 or so grandchildren surround him, and we raise young and old voices together to sing.

"Happy birthday, dear Grandpa!" our voices echo in the approaching dusk, "Happy birthday to you!"

Dad opens his gifts, and we ooh and aah and laugh. Food, liquor and presents restore the natural and festive order of the evening. Kris and my sisters busily distribute cake, Uncle Carl twists more balloon animals into fascinating shapes, and I sigh in contentment leaning against my husband.

Summer is over. Thankfully, however, we have many more family gatherings to celebrate and a host of new memories to create throughout the coming years.

Not one of us realizes this perfect day, brimming with joyful memories all its own, will be Dad's last birthday.

Dick Brown Olympics

My three-year-old niece Brandi is hell on wheels.

Joined at the hip to tiny cousin Emily, her most ardent fan, Brandi keeps her mother constantly vigilant. Just now at Dad's Friday Night Pizza Party, she grips a flowing fern twice her size, yanks it violently from its pot, and sends dirt flying. Emily, a delighted audience, erupts with her raucous little laugh.

The rest of us leap to grab the fern and clean up the mess. But not Dad. He sits in the middle of chaos in complete contentment. Nothing makes him happier than to be surrounded by all his kids and grandkids. If screaming toddlers drown out the television, Dad calmly reaches for the remote to turn the volume up a few more ear piercing decibels.

A Fourth of July gathering at Capital Avenue.

Our family is growing by leaps and bounds. At age 60, Dad becomes a father for the 11th time to his seven-year-old stepson Nolan and a grandfather for the 31st time. You'd think it wouldn't bother him too much to share his grandchildren occasionally with their other grandparents. It's not as if he doesn't have plenty of kids to spare. Dad, however, is jealous of time with his offspring. He can hardly bear it that Terri and her husband Paul move themselves and their little ones away to Colorado for Paul's business. When they come back to Nebraska to visit, Dad and Kris insist on hosting the whole family at their house, but Terri's always careful to give equal time to her Lewandowski in-laws.

On one visit, Paul offers to make a vegetable dish for dinner sometime. Dad takes full advantage of Paul's casual promise and calls Terri from the office one afternoon.

"Say, I just went to the store and bought everything Paul needs to make that veggie dish tonight."

Terri understands immediately what he's up to.

"Dad," she sighs patiently, "you know we can't have dinner with you tonight. We're leaving today to spend time with the Lewandowskis."

A terrible pause hangs in the air.

"Fine!" Dad explodes. "Go to the Lewandowskis and take the damn vegetables with you!"

Terri scolds him for being childish, and even Dad has the grace to offer a sheepish apology. Nevertheless, he hates sharing his family with "outsiders".

July 4th Bubble Gum Blowing Contest - from left: 
cousins Jessica, Patti and Ben.

Independence Day, however, belongs to Dad, and it's automatically understood that all of us will be in attendance. Dad's the most patriotic man alive. When we were growing up, he organized games and competitions in our big backyard on Capital Avenue every Fourth of July.We raced, hula-hooped, tossed water balloons and furiously battled for the prize. Dad was purely in his element as sole starter, clerk of the finish and judge for each competitive event.

Now with our our own kids, Dad's really developed the Independence Day competition - or as my husband John jokingly refers to it, the Dick Brown Olympics.  Every member of the family, no matter how young or old, is required to participate in Dad's Fourth of July competition.  The grandkids win a silver dollar for every event while the adults walk away with a 40 oz. bottle of beer.  Based on a carefully calculated point system, the winning family is presented with an annual trophy.  Dad makes sure the name of the conquering family is engraved on the award, and for a year it proudly resides in one of our homes.

Never in ours, though.  Never the Howard home. We never take that damn trophy home once.

It's still fun, though, and at the end of the day, Dad always prepares a glorious barbecue for every winner and loser alike.

Dad awards prizes to son Nolan, left, and grandson Kenny.

As soon as warm darkness descends, we stroll in a straggling mob the few blocks to Capital Heights Park to watch the big fireworks show. Ted George, the official master of ceremonies, is as much in his element on July 4th as Dad is in his. Over a tinny microphone, he begins the festivities by leading the crowd in the Pledge of Allegiance. Then, as we shiver in anticipation, Ted introduces the fireworks.

"Wasn't THAT a good one!" he always crows as the first glittering firework explodes above us.

It wouldn't be the Fourth of July without Ted George's familiar exclamation at the blaze of brilliant color in the Nebraska night sky. For years and years, he begins every show the same way, and I surrender to a comforting wave of nostalgia.

Our kids bounce up and down in excitement, and Dad grins at the sky leaning against Kris, his long arm draped across her shoulders. He's tired, I can see, and his knees are sore. Dad's arthritic knees are on the verge of crippling him, yet despite our pleas, he refuses to undergo knee replacement.

"Not another word!" he warns before hobbling to collect a ball on the tennis court or bracing himself against the banister to climb the stairs. Without fail, Dad climbs on his treadmill every morning and plays tennis every Sunday but endures both activities in excruciating pain. Surgery, he curtly informs us, is out of the question.

Dad's slowing down before our eyes, and we can hardly stand it. He works too hard and relies on a pacemaker to force his heart to behave.That our bigger-than-life father can be getting old is unthinkable. Dad's slain the monsters in our bedroom closets and become our whole world since Mom's death.

Ted George wraps up the fireworks show with the grand finale - an American flag constructed from firework sparklers. We ooh and aah in appreciation as the last sparks die. Reluctantly, we gather together to return home. Another Fourth of July takes its place in the history books.

All of us are tired as we troop back down Capital Avenue. Dad limps noticeably but stubbornly refuses offers of assistance. His knees may be shot, but his shoulders are strong and as broad as a table top. Kris leans over to say something to him. He throws his big head back, and his familiar laugh fills the air. I am at once comforted. Nothing will ever happen to Dad. We won't allow it. How could we ever manage without him? It doesn't matter how old we are - Dad's our protector.

He must always be so.

Dad and Kris

Dad has a girlfriend.

"I want you to meet her," Dad clears his throat nervously. He's gathered all of us together in the living room after Friday Night Pizza.  "This Sunday. Her name's Kris Nolan Clare, she's a young widow with a five-year-old son, and she works at Goodwill Industries," he rattles off in clipped sentences. "Everybody be here Sunday."

He says this with a note of finality, collects his newspaper and glasses, and abruptly leaves the room. All of us gape after him. Apparently, he will not be fielding questions.

Kris and Dad

We glance sideways at each other. It's not that there haven't been other women. Since Mom's death ten years ago, Dad's dated a couple of ladies seriously and comes perilously close to marrying one of them. He plays this new relationship, however, close to the vest - possibly because of the relentless manner in which we stalk, research and grill every woman who comes sniffing around.

What little we do know about her is not reassuring. Playing detective, I spot her one night as she and Dad attend a community theater event. She's only a few years older than I am. That, all by itself, is plenty of reason to hate her.

"Also, did I mention she has great legs?" I break the news to my sisters. "And don't even get me started on her boobs."

The following Sunday, we fill Dad's living room with spouses and kids in tow feeling nearly as nervous as Dad. The entire Brown family battalion waits for the new girlfriend's arrival. When the doorbell rings, we jump.

Kris, of course, is just as nervous as we are. She ushers her five-year-old son Nolan - scrubbed and shining like a kid out of a catalog - through the door, and we look each other over in awkward silence.

Until Nolan toots.

"Oops!" he grins and claps a hand over his red face.

We laugh, suddenly relax, and throughout the afternoon become acquainted with the remarkable woman who will eventually marry our much adored father.

Just about the same time Dad becomes a 49-year-old widower with ten kids, Kris is a very young and pregnant wife. One early morning, sailing down the highway on her way to work, she comes upon a terrible accident. In the mangled vehicle is her husband Tom who's departed for work just a few minutes before Kris.

Tom's only barely alive. In the emergency room before they rush him to surgery, Kris clings to him.

“RBO,” he whispers to her. Real Bad Owie. It's their little joke whenever they bump a toe or an elbow and need sympathy from each other.

“Yes,” Kris breathes. “RBO!”

Because Tom is strong enough to tell Kris he loves her before he's whisked away, she holds out hope he’ll make it through surgery. But it's the last time he's able to speak. He dies three days later.

In the same way Dad is making himself get out of bed every morning to go to work and care for ten kids, Kris will give birth to her only son, raise him alone, and force herself to go on with the business of living. Her parents, her mother and father-in-law, and her best friend Tina support her through the most difficult days of her life.

Kris and Dad

All at once, I forgive her for being young. The sensational legs and boobs don't matter any more.

"You need to marry her," I whisper urgently to my father in the kitchen. "And dear God, don't mess this up."

He doesn't. Or at least, if he does, Kris loves him too much to mind. On June 2nd of the following year, my brothers and sisters and Nolan and I march Dad and Kris down the aisle.

Kris loves him so much, she's willing to take on not only Dad but also our teenage brothers Jeff and Tom as well. When Tom's ancient, blind and incontinent cocker spaniel stumbles through her door, Kris doesn't bat an eye.

There are other nifty surprises as well. Even on sub-zero winter nights, Dad dons a knit stocking cap before retiring to bed and cracks all the windows in the bedroom. Just to be safe, he fires up the weather alert system and sets it carefully on the night stand. At three in the morning, it shrieks Kris awake with dire news of winter storm warnings in Lodge Pole or Nehawka - unheard of Nebraska villages some 275 miles away. Dad, with his stocking cap snug against his ears, sleeps blissfully through the robotic warnings.

Kris and Dad on their wedding day, June 2, 1990.

Dad adores Kris to distraction. We haven't seen him laugh so much since Mom. But Kris is not Mom. She's the CEO of Goodwill Industries of Greater Nebraska. Dick Brown isn't used to the new genre of the "working wife". To his credit, however, he forces himself to evolve with the times and embrace this new era with a dynamic working wife 20 years his junior. And it works. He's happy, Kris and Nolan are happy, and we're happy. Kris becomes our kids' grandmother and a sister/friend/mother to all of us.

Somewhere, Mom is happy, too. Deep down, I understand she's helped orchestrate these events to bring Kris and Nolan into our lives. Only Mom understands how much Dad and all of us need Kris.

Nolan and Dad

Today our little brother Nolan is a successful businessman in Omaha married to his beautiful Brianne. Kris, who is still dynamic and full of her cheerful energy, is the family matriarch at every holiday, baptism and athletic event. She's traveled hundreds of miles to be by our sides during surgeries and graduations. And once a year, she and my sisters and I make a trip to Omaha for our annual girls' shopping weekend - one time in white-out, blizzard conditions because nothing, and I mean nothing comes between us and our shopping trip.

We sometimes forget what an amazing woman our stepmother is and how respected she is in her professional life. To Nolan and all of us, she's simply Mom, Kris and Grandma.

She’s the one at Thanksgiving who still thinks it’s possible to snap a picture of all her kids and grandkids gathered in front of the fireplace. There are 70 of us. Even as she's taking a picture, some of us are reproducing. It's what we do.

She’s the one who laughs hardest at our jokes, the one who never forgets a single grandchild at Christmas, and the one who’s stuck with us through thick and thin.

And by God, she still has great legs.

Mother In-law

My sweet mother in-law is dying.

Her son Tom and I sit by her bed at 2 in the morning while my husband John escapes to the hospital lounge to sleep a few hours.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was 11, and Mom and I hoed a beet field all by ourselves?" my brother-in-law muses in the half darkness.

The Howards, about 1962. From top left clockwise: Bill
Howard, Jim, John, Dave, Tom, Cliff, Julie, Mary and Ruth.

Over the last three decades, I think I've heard every story about the Howard siblings growing up on the family farm in Gill, Colorado. The one about the much loathed pheasant shirt Ruth Howard carefully sews for her sons tops the list.

"That's a perfectly good shirt!" she nags her young sons who wad and toss it hastily to the next little boy in line.

I hear about a 10-year-old Tom who secretly constructs an inter-connected tunnel system deep into the dirt beneath the farmyard. His father is astonished one day as he drives a tractor across the yard only to inexplicably sink halfway into the ground - tractor and all.

Ruth laughs until she cries when her kids mercilessly tease her about the broken clock she lugs to the repair shop. Three years later, it still hasn't been collected.

"I've got to get that clock!" her daughter Mary mimics her mother.

The stories are legion.

Tom, along with my husband John, falls in the middle of the Howard kids. "Tom and I raised ourselves," John loves to say. Inseparable, the brothers traverse every inch of the family farm digging in the mud and racing their tricycles. When John must climb on the bus for his first day of school, he's devastated to part with his little brother.

I hear most of these family sagas when the seven siblings gather together in Gill. However, newly married into the Howard family more than 30 years ago, I tend to be a little naive about life on the farm.

"We used to love dressing up like our favorite Renaissance philosophers," John tells me with a straight face.

"That's right," his brother Tom nods gravely. "People still call us the Kennedys of Gill."

I'm relieved to discover otherwise. Meeting John's parents for the first time, nevertheless, petrifies me. Born and raised in Gill, Colorado, John's dad Bill maintains the generations-old family farm. Ruth Howard is, by all accounts, the finest cook in Weld County. A former home economics teacher, she and Bill prize education above all else. Every one of their seven children is a college graduate, and Bill and Ruth Howard are revered in the community. The seven Howard kids are smart, talented, and - like their mother - cook like gourmet chefs.

I can hardly toast a pop tart.

A tall, soft spoken gentleman, Bill Howard welcomes me into the fold. But I wonder if Ruth has reservations about a girl from Nebraska who can't cook. Or sew. Or garden.

That all changes when our oldest son is born. Kenny, the first Howard grandchild, is a huge sensation. Bill and Ruth make the trip to Nebraska to meet their new grandson and marvel at his long limbs and downy blonde hair.

"He looks like my babies," Ruth murmurs. Over the infant carrier, we smile at each other. Just like that we're friends.

Grandma and Grandpa with the grandkids. From left: Emily
Laura, Grandma, Kenny, David, Grandpa, Tommy. Not
pictured: Mitchell.

After a while, it's hard to forget I haven't been part of the Howard family forever. John's siblings slip automatically into birth order assignments: Jim and Mary, the oldest and youngest, are the biggest smart alecs. John, in the middle, is almost as irreverent and closely bonded to his funny, gentle brother Tom. Dave is the kind soul, Julie is beautiful and brilliant, and Cliff - the youngest brother - quietly observes his siblings and occasionally delivers a blistering funny one-liner.

Throughout the years the Howard kids move away or marry or produce grandchildren. But when they're all together, the stories abound and Grandma's cooking is the monumental focal point of every gathering.

Uncle Cliff holds his niece Emily.

Sad times are inevitable. Ruth grieves over Bill's passing in the old farmhouse. The news that her youngest granddaughter Laura is born with a severe disability is another great blow. Ruth Howard, however, is remarkably resilient. She moves into town and finds a job as an assistant to the disabled of the community - a tribute to her granddaughter Laura. Otherwise, she delights in her six grandchildren, reads anything and everything, and enthusiastically cheers her beloved Denver Broncos.

"Sometimes," she moans to my husband, "I just can't watch Tim Tebow. What is he doing out there?"

Even a broken hip, a minor stroke, and the eventual move to an assisted living facility fail to bring her down.

But then Cliff becomes sick.

This last January, Ruth's adored youngest son passes quietly from esophageal cancer. During the seven months of Cliff's illness, Ruth dares to hope.

Cliff's big brothers are his tender caretakers. Dave brings Cliff  to his own home to nurse him, hovering like a mother hen. Jim drives him to his chemo appointments and cooks tantalizing meals, tempting his painfully thin baby brother to eat. Dave and Jim are everything to Cliff in the final days of his life.

It falls to my husband John to break the news to Ruth. She looks up as we enter her room in the nursing home, pleased and surprised to see us all the way from Nebraska. With no preamble, John sits close to his mother. "I have bad news, Mom."

Her face closes, and she instinctively hunches waiting for the blow.

"He went very peacefully with Jim right beside him," John says gently.

She shuts her eyes, sighs deeply, and gathers herself.  "I let myself be so hopeful," she chokes.

Ruth and her five boys, Thanksgiving, 2016.From left: John,
Cliff (seated), Jim, Tom, Dave and Ruth.

John takes her hand. "We all did, Mom."

He leaves to notify the nursing home staff, and I lean close to my mother-in-law.

"It shouldn't happen this way," she whispers, and the tears fall. I rub her shoulder, and we weep together - we two mothers of Howard boys.

"I guess I should have Lucille's faith," she cries.

Lucille is her late sister-in-law, a much loved and devout woman who tragically loses three children before her own death.

I want to comfort my mother-in-law but don't know how. Ruth Howard entertains serious doubts about the after-life. I fear my Catholic platitudes would not console her and might even demean her terrible grief.

It's not surprising that Ruth loses all interest in eating or even living after Cliff's death. A few weeks ago, she's admitted into the hospital with pneumonia. Her health declines quickly, and she sleeps much of the time.

One afternoon last week, our tall sons who live in Denver visit her in the hospital. Their grandmother perks up as soon as they enter her room.

"Tommy," Ruth immediately demands of her younger grandson, "any chance the Broncos might draft Tony Romo?"

John and I make the trip from Nebraska just in time to say goodbye. Tom is already there, and Mary arrives the following day. We hope to be there as Grandma leaves this world, but Ruth Howard hangs on. Perhaps she is waiting for Julie who boards a plane from California to fly to her mother.

A handful of images in this life will remain with me the rest of my days. One of them is watching my good husband John and his little sister Mary ministering to their dying mother. John gently schwabs her dry lips, and Mary strokes Ruth's white, thistle-down hair speaking soft comforts.

"It's all right. Everything's all right," Mary murmurs over and over again.

Mary's wonderful children Emily and David and David's sweet wife Natalia gaze lovingly at the grandmother they adore. Like my own daughter-in-law Savanna, Natalia weeps at the sight of Ruth, fragile and laboring for breath.

But still Ruth hangs on.

John and Tom and I must return to Nebraska and Montana. So it is Jim, Dave and Mary who keep vigilant watch, and in the end, it's Mary, Ruth's last child, who gently ushers her mother out of this world.

"You can go now, Mom," she whispers. "I love you," she weeps.

It's the last period of the school day back at Grand Island Central Catholic when I receive Mary's text.

"Grandma just passed."

Ruth Howard, 1924 - 2017

I stare at my phone for a long moment. Fortunately, it's my free period, and I have no students in my classroom. Down the hall, John is teaching his last American History class. I decide to delay his grief until the end of the period and sneak silently into the school chapel. It's there that I cry for my mother-in-law.

Only weeks ago, Ruth is alive and well and aching for her lost Cliff.

"Who knows?" she says over the phone to her daughter Mary. "Maybe there really will be a big reunion after we die."

I think of her now, delighted to be with all those she loves - her husband Bill, her parents and brothers and sisters.

And most especially, her sweet boy Cliff.

Grandpa

Debbie's in the hospital ready to give birth to her first baby. We're all beside ourselves, but nobody's more excited than Dad.

Dad holding his granddaughter Nikki.

"Have you heard anything?" he calls first Mary, then me, and then Mary again.

"Dad," I say patiently for the third time, "I know just as much as you do."

Debbie's been in labor since yesterday. It's Friday morning now, and Dad's worried. He calls St. Francis Hospital and asks for Debbie Brown's room.

"I'm sorry, Sir," the receptionist says. "We don't have anybody here by that name."

Dad sputters in confusion. "She was there last night!"

But the receptionist is firm. "Please check your information, Sir."

It's only after Dad hangs up that he realizes his mistake. "I'm sorry," he calls the woman again. "Brown is her maiden name. I'm looking for Debbie Durning."

She sighs. "We don't have anybody registered by that name, Sir."

It does no good to argue with the silly woman. Dad bangs down the receiver. Then a thought occurs. He dials the hospital again.

"Hello," he says sheepishly. "It's me again. Would you mind checking for Mary Debra Durning?" It takes a while to cajole the receptionist, but Dad is sincerely apologetic. He tells her about naming all his children Mary and Joseph. He tells her this is the first of his five Mary's to have a baby. He tells her he is a very foolish, worried father.

"I'll put you right through, Mr. Brown," the woman says kindly.

Deb doesn't deliver her brand new daughter until Saturday morning after 48 grueling hours of labor. Dad and all of us come straight away. Brian, a proud new father, beams at his baby girl. Poor Deb, however, is exhausted. She smiles tearfully, though, when Dad - with his big hands - takes Nicole Patricia Durning and gently cradles his new granddaughter. Nikki, as Deb and Brian will call their new baby, is Dad's third grandchild. It's a happy moment, and we're all delighted.

In the days that follow, Debbie discovers she's never missed Mom as much as she does now. Nikki's a colicky infant. Hour after hour, Deb and Brian take turns carrying her around and around the house in a vain attempt to comfort her. One night as Nikki wails and Brians falls asleep exhausted, Deb bundles her screaming baby into the car and rushes to Dad's.

"I'm sorry, Dad! I know you've worked all day," Deb is practically crying herself. "But I don't know what to do!"

With a practiced hand, Dad slings baby Nikki over his huge shoulder and paces back and forth. He sings and soothes and rhythmically pats her while Deb surrenders herself to Dad's big sofa.

"Tura lura lura!" he chants the lullaby softly. Soon, mother and baby are both lulled to sleep.

Kyle, Rick and Jan's first baby.

Dad really takes to grandfathering. It's a good thing because grand kids arrive with alarming regularity. Rick and Jan's son Kyle, brown eyed and adorable, is born the following year. When he first begins to walk, leaning on a toy lawnmower to take adventurous jaunts up and down the long driveway of Dad's house, we laugh and cheer him on.

"Do you see that?" Dad observes Kyle keenly. "Look at the way that boy moves - like a born athlete."

I give birth to my first baby Kenny the year after that, and John and I are over the moon with happiness.

"Thought I'd come to see Kenny over my lunch hour," Dad calls one morning when Kenny's just a few weeks old. Dad's especially excited because our baby, born to exceedingly tall parents, is already off the growth charts.

"Did the doctor tell you how tall he'd be?" Dad asks as he settles into our old recliner with Kenny on his lap. Dad's a former college and semi-pro basketball player. In his mind's eye, he envisions a future with Kyle, Kenny and a host of tall, athletic grandsons and granddaughters. He surveys Kenny's long infant arms and legs. Kenny, in turn, stares in fascination at Dad's big, kind face.

"Oh Kenny," Dad murmurs, "I hope I live long enough to see you play basketball."

Dad sings a lullaby to our Kenny.

My heart skips a beat. "Geez, Dad," I scold him. "Don't talk like that!"

Not yet 60, Dad still has two kids at home, terrible knees and very high blood pressure. He's all we have. Our good father has propelled us through adolescence and college and weddings and now babies. We adore him and rely on him and can't imagine our lives without him.

I watch him across the room in his white business shirt and tie smiling down at Kenny.

"Tura lura lura," he sings softly to his baby grandson. "Hush, now don't you cry."

He's sung that lullaby to every one of us, and my eyes fill. I grab my camera quickly to capture the moment forever.

Dad needs to get married again. I peer through the viewfinder and am suddenly struck by the thought. Lowering the camera, I study my big father. He's handsome, funny and loving. And lonely.

After Mom dies and Dad begins to date, I wonder how he can possibly be lonely? After all, he's got ten kids to keep him company. But watching him with my little son, I'm hit with the realization that Dad needs more. Nobody's ever made him laugh like Mom did.

I breathe a silent prayer to God and Mom. The two of them can figure this out.

"Don't forget," I remind them. "She has to be funny."

The reminder, however, is unnecessary.

Mom's arranging Dad's love life even as we speak.

Mr. Howard

I'm 6 feet 1 inch tall.

And a girl.

Because I'm taller than almost everyone, the playing field for boyfriends is narrowed considerably. Dad leads me to believe otherwise as he sits down with me on the eve of my departure to Kearney State College.

I am a good Catholic girl, he reminds me. I am never ever to forget it, he warns sternly.

"College boys are crazy to have sex," he finally says with difficulty as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. Horrified, I wish to be anywhere but in this stifling living room with my red-faced father who can't leave his collar alone.

"Remember who you are and where you come from," he finishes abruptly.

We share an awkward hug.

"Take care of yourself," Dad mutters in a choked voice that is distinctly emotional.

Bless my good dad. As soon as I arrive at Kearney State that fall of 1973, I am carefully alert for boys who will be wanting sex with me. Not a single salivating male seems remotely interested in carnal desires of the flesh. I am vastly relieved and slightly disappointed.

Jamie

My only serious boyfriend in college is a sophomore who embraces his religion with deep fervor and bears an uncanny resemblance to Abraham Lincoln. He wears a huge wooden cross on a chain around his neck and pauses to pray at inconvenient moments - like at cook outs or drive-in movie theaters. Ten minutes into Young Frankenstein, he bows reverently to thank the Almighty for Junior Mints.

Boyfriends are few and far between over the years. Suddenly, I am 28-years-old. My younger brother Rick marries his beautiful Jan the year after my little sister Deb and Brian tie the knot. Brother Mick and his wife already have two children - Jamie and Bobby - our very first adorable niece and nephew. Joe has a steady girlfriend, and even Dad has an active dating life. I feel exactly like a middle-aged mother whose children have left the nest.

My little brother Rick and his gorgeous wife
Jan, 1983.

Bobby

The summer before I begin teaching my sixth year at Central Catholic High School, principal Hugh Brandon calls me into his office.

"Would you look at this?" He flips through an application on his desk and feigns surprise. "Here's a young fellow called John Howard who's applied for the history job. Let's see," Hugh studies the application carefully. "He's 29-years-old, single, and, oh!" He looks up innocently. "He's 6 feet 8." His eyes twinkle. "Should I hire him?"

Hugh and his wife Fran are two of the best friends I have in this world. He's messing with me, pure and simple.

"I don't care if he's a serial killer," I say. "Hire him."

Fortunately, Mr. Howard is not a serial killer. He is, however, a little insane.

He drives up the circle drive at Central Catholic the first day of school in a tiny blue Volkswagen Rabbit which appears to have been constructed by engineers around his body. One long arm hangs lazily out the tiny window with knuckles that nearly graze the street.

Mr. Howard is an immediate school sensation, and not only because of his remarkable stature. He teaches the Industrial Revolution wearing a giant fake nose and glasses. He pulls rubber chickens out of his desk. And one morning, late for class, he tries to scare his students by leaping explosively through the door. But when you're 6 feet 8, you shouldn't leap explosively through anything. Slamming his head against the door jamb, he nearly knocks himself out.

We observe each other shyly those first few months, but my little sister Terri, a student in Mr. Howard's history class, decides to propel things along.

"You should ask my sister out," she tells him point blank. "You're both tall, you like to read, and your hair's the same color." She shrugs. "What else do you need?"

Four nights before Christmas, Nebraska endures one of the worst blizzards of the decade. School's been canceled for the following day, and I sit in my small living room wrapped in an old comforter listening to the wind howl. Suddenly, the doorbell rings. I'm astonished to see Mr. Howard towering over my front door.

"What are you doing?" I gasp and pull him inside.

He stamps the snow off his feet. "Thought you might like to see a movie," he suggests casually.

I gape at the blowing snow. "You're kidding, right?"

He shrugs. "Why not?"

Against my better judgment, I slide into my coat and gloves, and the two of us, hunched low against the wind, fight our way to his little Volkswagen.

"I don't know," I hesitate. "Are you sure you can drive in this?" From inside the car, I peer out at the fading visibility.

"I can drive in anything," he says with a cocksure attitude as he backs out the driveway and promptly slides into the huge Buick parked across the street. The Buick is unharmed, fortunately, but Mr. Howard's car sports a deep half-moon dent.

We inch along to the theater to see Terms of Endearment, and, I'm ashamed to say, talk and laugh through the whole thing - even the death scene. But it doesn't matter since we're the only two people in attendance. Afterwards, we crawl along in his little car to a nearly empty bar and grill.  Barely in the act of shedding our heavy coats and gloves, Mr. Howard leaps up.

"We have to go," he says. "I don't have any money."

"I have money," I protest.

But he won't hear of it. So out into the blizzard we go - this time to find a nearby ATM. ATM's, however, are relatively new, and I ask him if he's ever used one.

He stares at me in mock horror. "The audacity! I use 'em all the time!"

Mr. Howard and me - 1984, a few months before our wedding.

Apparently, he's never used this particular ATM. Sitting in the car, I watch him fight his way through the snow into the enclosed cubicle of the bank to do battle with the ATM. His card is returned not once, but three times, and he scratches his head in obvious bewilderment.

I laugh, and in a moment of crystal clear awareness, it hits me. One day I will marry that sweet, crazy man who now fumbles with the mysterious automated teller machine.

And I do - not quite a year later. Every kid in the school is invited.

Once, not too long ago, my grandmother tells me just before she dies that I will meet and marry somebody exactly like John Boy Walton. I hate John Boy Walton. Thankfully, Mr. Howard is not remotely like John Boy Walton.

But I love Mr. Howard. With all my heart, as a matter of fact. Even if I do call him John Boy.

And I know Grandma would love him, too.

Grandma

When Grandma opens her front door to greet us, I'm shocked.

Always tall and substantial, my 74-year-old widowed grandmother is suddenly rake thin and diminished before my eyes. I embrace her, feel her frail bones, and swallow a stab of fear.

She grabs my little brothers Tom and Jeff together into a bear hug, and that's when I notice the earrings.

"Oh my lord," I breathe. "Did you pierce your ears?" I can hardly take it in.

Grandma with our baby brother Jeff, 1971

Her shoulders shake with silent laughter, and she poses left and right to display the emerald colored rocks in her ear lobes.

"Why not?" she smiles at my astonished face. "Life is short."

This cheers me. It's been a long time since my adored grandmother exhibits interest in much of anything besides us. And Tom Schneider. She's so crazy about the late night television host that she removes his face from the cover of an old TV Guide and tapes it to the mirror of her bedroom vanity. In the three years since our mother's death, Grandma declines dramatically and never fully recovers from the loss of her only child.

"How are you feeling?" I search her face.

"Fine! Fine!" she lies. Two weeks ago my little sister Deb - just shy of her 21st birthday - marries Brian Durning, the sweet love of her life. Grandma, too ill with heart trouble to make the long trip from Beatrice, is unable to attend the wedding. I promise to load Tom and Jeff into my little Pacer and bring lots of pictures from the big day. She desperately wants to know all about Deb's wedding.

Deb and Brian

"But first," she beams at my little brothers, "let's have some macaroni and cheese."

We love Grandma's homemade mac and cheese - almost as much as the little silver dollar pancakes she makes when she comes to visit. Being with her is like the best sort of holiday.

"Eat your peas, Jeff," I nag my youngest brother during lunch. He pushes them back and forth on his plate, pouting, until Grandma pulls him to her and whispers in his ear. Jeff flashes a look of relief then sticks his tongue out at me.

"C'mon, Tom!" The two of them scrape their chairs away from the table and fall out the door. Grandma chuckles, and I rise to clear the table.

"Sit," she pulls me back. "Tell me everything. How'd it go?"

She doesn't mean the wedding. She means Dad. He's dating a woman. The revelation is a bolt from the blue, but I seem to have more trouble digesting the news than the rest of my younger siblings.

I drop back in my chair. "They're in love," I roll my eyes.

Grandma shakes her head. "You had to expect this. Your dad's a young man."

I instantly bristle. Dena, Dad's girlfriend, is everything I despise. She's a name dropper for one thing.

"Did I tell you I had lunch with the mayor?" Dena casually mentions in a conversation that has nothing to do with lunch or the mayor.

She owns a brand new Cadillac, for another thing. Not that I have anything against Cadillacs. But Dena hires someone to engrave her initials in gold on the driver's side door.

"Now why would you hate her for that?" my grandmother chides me.

I stare down at my lap and feel the hot sting of tears. The problem with Dena is not that she's a divorced, working mother of two filled with her own self importance. Under any other circumstances - if I'm completely honest - I wouldn't mind her all that much. The problem is that Dad loves her and seems to have forgotten Mom. For the first time in my life, I'm angry with my father. We can barely sit together in the same room. And I'm so jealous of Dena for presuming that she can dare to take my mother's place that I don't bother to hide my contempt. Never in my life have I behaved so terribly. I am ashamed and angry and miserable all at once.

Grandma sighs. "I saw Patti," she says out of the blue. I am shocked out of my misery.

Grandma, Mom (Patti), and Grandpa holding me, 1955

"Grandma," I croak. "You saw Mom?"

She nods. "You'll think I'm a crazy, old woman. Maybe grief does that to people."

I grab her hand. "You're not crazy."

She motions to her recliner. "I was sitting right over there a few weeks ago. The windows were open, and the birds were singing."

Instantly emotional, she fumbles for the perennial kleenex under her watch band. "I thought to myself, how can those damn birds sing when my Patti's gone?"

She smiles through her tears. "Then I saw her."

A column of light, she says, descends from the ceiling in front of her chair. My mother steps from behind it. "Oh, she was beautiful and glowing," Grandma breathes. "Her hair was lighter and swept over to one side, and she wore a beige colored gown with a rope belt around her waist. She smiled and reached out to me!"

I'm gripping my grandmother's hand too hard. "Did she say anything?"

"No. She stepped behind the column, and it all went back up through the ceiling."

We stare at each other in wordless wonder.

"Your mother wants us to go on with our lives," Grandma mops her eyes. "Don't you see? That's what your dad's trying to do."

I don't want to talk about Dad, but Grandma cups my face in both her hands. She makes me look at her. "He's taking the next step. Dearie!" She uses the old-fashioned endearment. "Let him be happy."

I sob like a little girl, and Grandma pulls me over until our foreheads touch. "It's time for you to take the next step."

We're locked together, connected at the head like conjoined twins. Grandma's gaze is close and penetrating, and I miss Mom very much.

"It's time," Grandma says, stroking my hair. "It's time to find your John Boy Walton."

I sputter and bolt up. "Grandma! Are you kidding? John Boy Walton!" I snort.

"Yes, John Boy!" Grandma shoots back. "He's perfect. John Boy adores books - you adore books. You're both devoted to your families. And he's a good boy!" She nods her head indignantly.

I laugh even as I cry. "Grandma," I shudder, "John Boy Walton just doesn't do it. I'm really sorry."

Debbie on her wedding day

She laughs, too - her low, throaty chuckle that I love.

There is no more talk about big next steps, John Boy Walton or celestial visions. Instead, I pull out envelopes of photos - photos of Deb and Brian's wedding, the rehearsal dinner, Dad's tuxedo that's too short in the sleeves, and Uncle Carl furiously decorating the church. Grandma pores over them in fascination. Pretty soon, my little brothers wander in to sit beside her to describe to my grandmother every little detail she craves.

"All that greenery we collected at the river? You see it?" Tommy points out Uncle Carl's foliage surrounding the altar. "Turns out it was marijuana, and we didn't even know it!"

Grandma belts out her big, low laugh. A few moments later, though, she weeps. "If only I could have been there. If only Patti could have!"

Debbie and Dad

She keeps one or two photos to hang on the vanity mirror next to Tom Schneider and gazes at them lovingly. "Isn't Debbie the most beautiful bride?" she shakes her head.

Later that evening, I tuck Grandma into my little car with the boys and treat her to dinner at her favorite steakhouse - actually the only steakhouse - in Beatrice. When we return home, Grandma is gaunt and exhausted. She sits on the side of her bed for a long time gazing at Deb's wedding photos on her vanity, and I help Tom and Jeff spread sleeping bags on the living room floor. Before I retire to the living room couch to sleep myself, I poke my head in Grandma's room to say goodnight.

She pats the bed next to her, and I sit. "I want to tell you," she says softly, "that you've been a wonderful granddaughter."

I feel that strange stab of fear again. "Grandma," I say uncomfortably.

"It's true," she says. "I want you to know."

I hug her tightly and plant a kiss on her cheek. "Goodnight, Grandma."

In the middle of the night, I am awakened. Grandma hovers over my little brothers in the dark and covers Jeff with a light blanket.

"Are you okay?" I am instantly alert.

"I'm fine," she shushes me. "Everything's fine."

I wake up again. This time Grandma leans over me.

"Grandma!" I sit up.

"Just checking on everybody," she whispers. "I'm off to bed now."

We all sleep late the next morning - even Grandma. Usually up before seven, she hasn't stirred.  It's nearly nine now. When I step in to check on her, she's sleeping peacefully on her side with her cheek resting on her hands. And she's smiling.

"Grandma's having a great dream," I whisper to the boys. "We'll let her sleep a while."

But as I shower, it's my sweet little brother Tommy who makes the terrible discovery.

Grandma is gone.

In the frenetic days ahead during preparations and the funeral itself, I never do cry for my grandmother. Not even afterwards as she rests safely forever beside my grandfather. Not even when her little house sits empty and soulless. All she ever wants, I know with certainty, is to be with Mom and Grandpa. How can I wish her back?

Grandma's taken the next big step, and I'm happy for her.

Now she's counting on me to do the same.